Fire
An entry for therealljidol. Intersect week, topic 12: "Sexual Ethics." For my partner talonkarrde88's contribution - and the other side of the story - click here, and see below for the author's notes.
Every man in a 50-foot radius stops to look their fill as I enter. Who can blame them? I look like an honest-to-God pinup, all lush hair and killer curves and red lips - a devastating siren call.
Good. Let them look. I want everybody in the place to know I'm here. And to know why.
Every which way, heads are turning; a buzz rises in the air. I begin to wonder -
- and then I see her, off to one side, almost invisible. She looks me dead in the eye, and I return the favor with a slight nod. I feel myself being judged. That's how I know she'll pass the message along.
Satisfied, I turn aside to see him rise from the table. I swallow hard, suddenly nervous. But the judging eyes are boring into my head; I have to do what I'm here to do.
"You look spectacular," he says with a grin, taking my hand and pulling me in to kiss my cheek.
I quirk a smile, peck the air next to his face. "I know," I say wryly. He chuckles, pulls my chair out, squeezes my hand as he sits.
"I don't have to tell you I was surprised you called," he begins. "Glad, of course. But when you said why..."
"Shocking, isn't it?" I say, caressing his hand. "But there you go."
"Well, I'm still glad," he replies evenly. "Glad you picked me. No matter what else, I always want you safe."
I feel myself stiffen a little. I can't help but to laugh bitterly.
"Safe," I nod, taking a sip of the pinot grigio he's ordered for me. "The story of my life."
His face darkens with the old worry. "Eden," he says. "Are you sure you should be doing this? We can stop before it goes any further."
I look across the dining room and see her again, a phone to her ear, the other hand cupped around her mouth for privacy. And I know. I shake my head, look him in the eye.
"No," I say. "It's already done."
***
21-year-old girls, even when they're college graduates, are a unique breed. In one second they're worldly and wise, sex on legs, bursting with enthusiasm and fertility - and in the next, naïve and childlike, bubbling with wonder. That was me - the epitome of the virgin slut, an articulate pleasure-seeker always seeking more, never giving away too much.
Then, a completely different man crossed my path. The eight years of difference in Peter's age might as well have been twenty, level and calm as he was. No surprise that he was a counselor: "a 'comforting voice when people need me most,'" he'd said as if reading from a long-memorized script, chuckling.
To my surprise, I fell for him like a ton of bricks. He was charming, gentle, patient - an utterly perfect counterpoint to my low-cut wardrobe, my occasionally salty vocabulary, my rather loud and expressive adoration of his very being. He dressed conservatively, never said anything more profane than "damn," called me "sweetheart" and "my love."
Peter never seemed to judge me, even when I deserved it. The day we married, he smiled patiently over a black bow tie as I - in a red satin gown - beamed so much my face hurt. When I lost our first child only a year later, he held me, somber but tearless, as I wept in agony.
But as three years turned into four, and five to six, I'd begun to ache for other reasons. He wasn't stoic, exactly; just somehow impenetrable. Compassionate and dispassionate all at once. It made him an ideal shrink, a lovely husband.
And a thoroughly diffident lover. Of course he took wonderful care of me, in bed and out. He could shield me from my own blind rage, bring me to tears with tender lovemaking. But he never aroused me, not really. Hot as I'd burned all my life, I never seemed able to melt his ice.
Then again, his reserve never subdued my fire. Quite the opposite. The more desperate I became to see him warm up, the more outlandishly I behaved. I wouldn't or couldn't simply ask him, tell him; I wanted him to see, and to step forward.
He saw, but he didn't let on. Told me to be safe, reached over to squeeze my hand as I crawled into bed at two or three o'clock in the morning.
Truth be told, he didn't have anything to worry about. I'd never done anything more with other men than flirt demurely. It didn't matter: acting wild didn't rouse him; being loyal didn't inspire him.
I can't live this way anymore. I can't keep giving all of myself away to him and getting so little in return. I've never loved anyone so desperately in my life, but by the gods, he'll come to life or I'll leave him in the dust.
I'm crossing the line tonight. Tonight, Peter's getting a phone call that will tell him - undeniably - that his wife has stopped playing with fire. That instead, she's walking over hot coals straight into an inferno.
***
It's 3:32 am when I slip into the bedroom, painfully gorgeous shoes in hand. Somehow, I don't feel any different.
The room certainly doesn't look any different. Peter is asleep, facing the empty space next to him, his breathing quiet and even. I don't spare a look at his face, not yet.
Instead, I slip into the bathroom and strip away the evening with something that's not quite disgust, then slink quietly back to the bedside, sliding underneath the duvet. I hold my breath, and for a moment I think I've made it; Peter's breathing is still heavy. My eyes drift shut as I gratefully let exhaustion take me over.
And then Peter reaches out and takes my hand. I jump, but I expect a brief, gentle squeeze before he releases it and turns toward the wall.
Not this time. This time, he doesn't let go.
***
I'm drifting out of a blessedly dreamless sleep when I feel a warmth leaving me. I hear feet padding to the bathroom, and I remember. He'd only just now released my hand.
Despite myself, my eyes flutter open, and I suck in a breath at the memory of last night. My heart knocks against my chest as I hear the buzz of his shaver, the rush of the faucet. I slide out of the covers, rake my hair out of my face. In the bathroom, I start the shower and steal a glance at Peter; he's standing before the mirror, studiously examining his cup.
Emotion seizes in my throat, and I hesitate for a moment - but he neither speaks nor turns. Angry, then. I guess it's a start. I slip my satin gown over my head, at which point he becomes fascinated by the hand towel - then pads back out as I draw the curtain.
The water courses over my back, making my head even heavier. I hear the closet door, hangers; then, the spoon clanking against his cereal bowl.
He's still not done when I get to the kitchen, reading the cereal box like it's the great American novel. Though my hair is combed out around my shoulders, the satin gown back on, I know he won't look until I turn away.
So I give him the opportunity, turning away to reach up for a plate. Sure enough, I finally feel his eyes on me. He watches the gown slide over my hips; I can practically hear the gears in his head grinding as he almost fails to avoid looking at my ass.
He's uncomfortable? Good. I swallow my shame as my indignation returns. It's about time we traded places.
I feel him look away, hear him rise, the chair scraping against the floor. He rinses the bowl, setting it methodically in the dishwasher just as the doorbell rings.
Odd, this. Who the hell... and before I have time to think, he's slipping out the door to the garage, leaving me alone to answer. I hear him mutter something...did he...say he loves me?
The bell rings again, insistent; there's nothing for it. I snatch a shirt off the coat rack, pulling it around me as I peer out the curtain. No one is there.
But when I open the door, there's a square white envelope in the box below the post.
I know what this is. Everyone knows what these are. A Summoning...but why? I swallow hard as I take it, feel colder as I touch it. My name is on the front...of course it is, it would never be him. Too perfect, I think, bitter and tender all at once.
I remember myself, slip back in the door in the hopes that no one's noticed. Before I even know what I'm doing, it's open.
You are Summoned for Evaluation.
Appear at precisely eleven this morning.
I know my face is as white as the envelope now. Somehow, the terseness is even more harrowing. I try to take heart that it's Evaluation; there's still hope. Evaluation isn't Reckoning.
I suppress a shudder and look at the clock on the living room wall: 9:30. Good that I've showered, then. I know the way there; it's required. I rush to the bedroom, choose a modest navy suit with a white blouse and sensible flats; it's expected. I wonder how Peter finds a boundless well of apathy to drink from; I'm trying, and failing.
Silently, now, I ask forgiveness again. I don't hear an answer, didn't expect one. What else can I do?
Nothing. There's nothing for it. I grab the keys, take my purse, and walk slowly out the door.
***
The carrier - with me as its only passenger - rumbles along smoothly, past homes and parks and warehouses, before slowing inexorably as it approaches a silver glass building. It's intentional - it must be. All that you are, everything about you, reflected a hundred times over no matter which way you move.
I alight on the platform, pass alone through the door that says Evaluations. The hall opens onto a seemingly endless white marble staircase. The next sign is at a landing some way up. No lifts, I realize. It dawns on me that this is part of the experience, that it's supposed to inspire reverence.
It's working.
At a second landing, I see a row of electric eyes. I lift the envelope from my purse, hold it in front of one. A tiny light turns green, and 30 feet away, a door slides open.
I walk over at an even pace and step through; the door whooshes shut behind me. There's little light now; I can see the outline of my shadow, impossibly high walls, and a lighted square. There's not a sign, and I don't need one. I walk to the square, stand as close to the center as I can manage...close my eyes, take a deep breath...and wait.
There's a long silence as the Evaluator prepares to begin. I can't see...him? her? even when my eyes open. I use what little bitterness I have left to force myself to be stoic, to show nothing on my face.
And then I hear the voice.
"Eden?" It cracks, rises on the second syllable.
"Peter," I whisper, and by what miracle I don't collapse to the floor, I'll never know. If ever I knew what a breaking heart felt like, it would be now.
Still, I can barely see him. He's no more than a dark outline against the draped walls; the echo of every sound is only in my head.
I feel a tremor in the room; he isn't proceeding as normal, even as desperately as he tries. No one ever spoke of this, but I knew. He clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably - and then plunges forward.
"Where were you last night?" he intones stoically.
So this is why; this is how. The apathy was a job. Training. Oddly, I feel no anger now. But no shame, either.
"I went to dinner with a friend," I answer evenly.
The head drops, and I hear writing, then fumbling. More writing, and he begins to pepper me with questions. I hear it, but I can scarcely believe: he's losing control.
I thought it was what I wanted, all this time. Instead, it scares me enough so that the answers come just as quickly, as precisely as I can manage. The questions stop flying past my ears for a moment, and I see rather than hear him take a deep breath.
"What happened after dinner?"
Did his voice just crack? My heart drops. Only now do I see what I've done. He was steadfast, loyal. Loving. All this time I'd been chasing after the sun, when all I should have done was cherish the light in his eyes. He was only this shadow until they released him from service. In time to come, he would have been mine again.
And now I doubted that he ever would be. It was exactly what I deserved.
"We...walked down the block," I answered, haltingly.
I hear what sounds like a wild animal growling low in its throat. It's coming from him. My head swims as every last bit of blood drains out of it.
"For three fucking hours?"
I recoil, terror twisting in my stomach. He doesn't believe me. His every skill has failed him, and it's my fault, it's all my fault.
And then, in a breath, he's jumped from the seat, he's striding up to me. He stands at the edge of the square, waiting. Sweat runs through my hair, down the back of my neck. I am paralyzed, powerless to deny, to even shake my head.
And then, he's screaming. Face red, spittle flying, advancing on me, all apathy gone.
I think I'm crying. I...don't know what else I think. All I know is that I want to get away.
“I was called, did you know that? She called me once, in the beginning, when you were making your way through the restaurant and turning every fucking head in thirty yards."
I edge backward, shaking my head, hands rising in surrender.
"And I said I trusted you, that you were just there with a friend, that it would be fine.”
I move my lips, but no sound will come out; slide backward again, and catch my heel on the edge of the square. He's wild, raging, advancing on me. Am I seeing him disappear? Or am I only seeing him for the first time?
“And then she called me again, when you left with him. And I waited for you, three fucking hours, waiting, wanting to hear the garage door open, praying that you had just gotten a little bit delayed on the way home.”
I try to skitter away, stumble. Crash into a wall as he rushes forward. I'm lost as he roars in my face.
“What did you do?!”
"I swear, it was nothing!" Sobbing, begging. "Nothing happened! Nothing! Please..."
Can't vomit, not here...why doesn't he believe me? He raises a hand over his head. No, please. I can't even form words. Tears, snot. My stomach hurts from the heaving. Please don't.
Am I shaking my head? I think I'm shaking my head. His face, bright red above me.
"please..."
Sobbing.
I wait for the impact.
It doesn't come.
Sniffling. A croak from my parched lips: "Nothing. It was nothing."
I wait, and it still doesn't come.
He changes again, his arm drops.
I see him remember something. I hear him remember: She doesn't lie. She never lies.
He's kneeling now. Softening, paling, shrinking. “Why, then? Why would you do something like that? Who was it?” I shake my head, still afraid to speak, afraid of the lurking monster.
"Eden," he says, and I hear him coming back to himself, but I'm still recoiling, I can't seem to stop. "Eden. Why?"
"I just...wanted you...back." Gasping, heaving leftover sobs, like a small child. "I couldn't...get...enough...of anything."
"I was never...gone, Eden. There wasn't a day that I didn't think of you, that I didn't cherish the thought of sleeping by your side... I gave you everything. Everything except for...this." Through swollen eyes, I see him sweep the arm forward, through the room. His eyes are on me, apologetic. Troubled, pleading.
"I needed...to...be good at this job. And that meant that I couldn't always be what you wanted me to be. But now I'm free, Eden. I'm yours."
I look at him carefully, searching for guile. For a sign that the curtain will draw again, that the door will slam shut and everything, everything will be over.
There is no sign. There's only my beloved, the only man I've ever known who was worth...everything. I feel my lips cracking as I speak, softly.
"It was Brendan."
I watch the knowledge dawn on his face. "Brendan," he repeats, so softly I almost don't hear him.
His eyes are on me, locked to mine, searching. Drawing on his skills, drawing on his love. I shake my head in tune with my answer. "Nobody else," I whisper. "Ever. It was Brendan."
"Brendan," he says again, numbly. And now I know, now I can trust. He's heard me, and he's coming back.
Because Brendan is my half-brother.
The fear leaves me - and this time, the fire in Peter's eyes is nothing but love, the look on his face nothing so much as hunger.
And then, before I can think or protest or imagine, he's pinned me against the wall, kissing me hard. My knees buckle, but it doesn't matter; he won't let me fall now. I kiss him back with everything I've been holding for all this time.
We move together then, undressing each other, making anything but a beast. He gazes deeply at me, love in his eyes, in his skin on mine. And when the crest breaks, we're together in it, tasting salt on each other's lips.
We drift together to the floor, where he cradles me, dropping kisses on my neck . He helps me dress, and I help him brush off wrinkles, tie his tie, buckle his belt. He sees me struggling to stand and lifts me up, pulling me against him - this time with adoration, with the blessed sweetness I thought I'd lost forever.
And then a door slides open.
I freeze in terror, my fingers gripping Peter's arm. It's a different door, behind the dais. Light spills from behind it, revealing the woman from the restaurant. Smiling, genuinely.
My eyes tell me that Peter is as surprised as I am.
The woman speaks, quietly, evenly. No judgment is evident in her tone.
"Peter, you are released from your duties.”
My mouth drops open as I look at him again. A wash of emotion, and then - his face shows nothing but contentment. I don't know precisely what he's thinking - all I know is that he's fully, truly mine once more. Free. I want to leap into his arms, show him how much I love him all over again.
Instead, I find that his hand in mine gives me the blessed restraint to...wait. He turns to me, smiling softly, and bends to kiss me - a kiss full of promise, brimming with what was and all that will be.
When he moves away, I can tell he's hesitating. The woman stands, impassive but not unkind, waiting.
But it only lasts a moment. He smiles, laces his fingers between mine - and together, we turn away and leave the chamber.
As we traverse the stairs, walk the halls, slip back into the carrier, I've lived another lifetime with him. We're both reeling with anticipation, with possibility - I can see it, I can feel it. We sit, and he pulls me close, looping an arm over my shoulders as I happily stretch my legs across his lap.
He buries his face in my hair, breathing deeply. Whispers his love in my ear as I stroke his cheek, and whisper mine back. It won't always be this perfect, I know. But perfection was never what I needed. Just...joy, togetherness, love so complete that it fills your every thought.
It's ours now. And as the scenery rushes by the windows, we both know that we're finally, truly going home.
A/N: My talented partner talonkarrde88 couldn't have made this easier to enjoy. We worked closely to interlink our entries, but still let them stand alone. We hope every word was worth reading!
Every man in a 50-foot radius stops to look their fill as I enter. Who can blame them? I look like an honest-to-God pinup, all lush hair and killer curves and red lips - a devastating siren call.
Good. Let them look. I want everybody in the place to know I'm here. And to know why.
Every which way, heads are turning; a buzz rises in the air. I begin to wonder -
- and then I see her, off to one side, almost invisible. She looks me dead in the eye, and I return the favor with a slight nod. I feel myself being judged. That's how I know she'll pass the message along.
Satisfied, I turn aside to see him rise from the table. I swallow hard, suddenly nervous. But the judging eyes are boring into my head; I have to do what I'm here to do.
"You look spectacular," he says with a grin, taking my hand and pulling me in to kiss my cheek.
I quirk a smile, peck the air next to his face. "I know," I say wryly. He chuckles, pulls my chair out, squeezes my hand as he sits.
"I don't have to tell you I was surprised you called," he begins. "Glad, of course. But when you said why..."
"Shocking, isn't it?" I say, caressing his hand. "But there you go."
"Well, I'm still glad," he replies evenly. "Glad you picked me. No matter what else, I always want you safe."
I feel myself stiffen a little. I can't help but to laugh bitterly.
"Safe," I nod, taking a sip of the pinot grigio he's ordered for me. "The story of my life."
His face darkens with the old worry. "Eden," he says. "Are you sure you should be doing this? We can stop before it goes any further."
I look across the dining room and see her again, a phone to her ear, the other hand cupped around her mouth for privacy. And I know. I shake my head, look him in the eye.
"No," I say. "It's already done."
***
21-year-old girls, even when they're college graduates, are a unique breed. In one second they're worldly and wise, sex on legs, bursting with enthusiasm and fertility - and in the next, naïve and childlike, bubbling with wonder. That was me - the epitome of the virgin slut, an articulate pleasure-seeker always seeking more, never giving away too much.
Then, a completely different man crossed my path. The eight years of difference in Peter's age might as well have been twenty, level and calm as he was. No surprise that he was a counselor: "a 'comforting voice when people need me most,'" he'd said as if reading from a long-memorized script, chuckling.
To my surprise, I fell for him like a ton of bricks. He was charming, gentle, patient - an utterly perfect counterpoint to my low-cut wardrobe, my occasionally salty vocabulary, my rather loud and expressive adoration of his very being. He dressed conservatively, never said anything more profane than "damn," called me "sweetheart" and "my love."
Peter never seemed to judge me, even when I deserved it. The day we married, he smiled patiently over a black bow tie as I - in a red satin gown - beamed so much my face hurt. When I lost our first child only a year later, he held me, somber but tearless, as I wept in agony.
But as three years turned into four, and five to six, I'd begun to ache for other reasons. He wasn't stoic, exactly; just somehow impenetrable. Compassionate and dispassionate all at once. It made him an ideal shrink, a lovely husband.
And a thoroughly diffident lover. Of course he took wonderful care of me, in bed and out. He could shield me from my own blind rage, bring me to tears with tender lovemaking. But he never aroused me, not really. Hot as I'd burned all my life, I never seemed able to melt his ice.
Then again, his reserve never subdued my fire. Quite the opposite. The more desperate I became to see him warm up, the more outlandishly I behaved. I wouldn't or couldn't simply ask him, tell him; I wanted him to see, and to step forward.
He saw, but he didn't let on. Told me to be safe, reached over to squeeze my hand as I crawled into bed at two or three o'clock in the morning.
Truth be told, he didn't have anything to worry about. I'd never done anything more with other men than flirt demurely. It didn't matter: acting wild didn't rouse him; being loyal didn't inspire him.
I can't live this way anymore. I can't keep giving all of myself away to him and getting so little in return. I've never loved anyone so desperately in my life, but by the gods, he'll come to life or I'll leave him in the dust.
I'm crossing the line tonight. Tonight, Peter's getting a phone call that will tell him - undeniably - that his wife has stopped playing with fire. That instead, she's walking over hot coals straight into an inferno.
***
It's 3:32 am when I slip into the bedroom, painfully gorgeous shoes in hand. Somehow, I don't feel any different.
The room certainly doesn't look any different. Peter is asleep, facing the empty space next to him, his breathing quiet and even. I don't spare a look at his face, not yet.
Instead, I slip into the bathroom and strip away the evening with something that's not quite disgust, then slink quietly back to the bedside, sliding underneath the duvet. I hold my breath, and for a moment I think I've made it; Peter's breathing is still heavy. My eyes drift shut as I gratefully let exhaustion take me over.
And then Peter reaches out and takes my hand. I jump, but I expect a brief, gentle squeeze before he releases it and turns toward the wall.
Not this time. This time, he doesn't let go.
***
I'm drifting out of a blessedly dreamless sleep when I feel a warmth leaving me. I hear feet padding to the bathroom, and I remember. He'd only just now released my hand.
Despite myself, my eyes flutter open, and I suck in a breath at the memory of last night. My heart knocks against my chest as I hear the buzz of his shaver, the rush of the faucet. I slide out of the covers, rake my hair out of my face. In the bathroom, I start the shower and steal a glance at Peter; he's standing before the mirror, studiously examining his cup.
Emotion seizes in my throat, and I hesitate for a moment - but he neither speaks nor turns. Angry, then. I guess it's a start. I slip my satin gown over my head, at which point he becomes fascinated by the hand towel - then pads back out as I draw the curtain.
The water courses over my back, making my head even heavier. I hear the closet door, hangers; then, the spoon clanking against his cereal bowl.
He's still not done when I get to the kitchen, reading the cereal box like it's the great American novel. Though my hair is combed out around my shoulders, the satin gown back on, I know he won't look until I turn away.
So I give him the opportunity, turning away to reach up for a plate. Sure enough, I finally feel his eyes on me. He watches the gown slide over my hips; I can practically hear the gears in his head grinding as he almost fails to avoid looking at my ass.
He's uncomfortable? Good. I swallow my shame as my indignation returns. It's about time we traded places.
I feel him look away, hear him rise, the chair scraping against the floor. He rinses the bowl, setting it methodically in the dishwasher just as the doorbell rings.
Odd, this. Who the hell... and before I have time to think, he's slipping out the door to the garage, leaving me alone to answer. I hear him mutter something...did he...say he loves me?
The bell rings again, insistent; there's nothing for it. I snatch a shirt off the coat rack, pulling it around me as I peer out the curtain. No one is there.
But when I open the door, there's a square white envelope in the box below the post.
I know what this is. Everyone knows what these are. A Summoning...but why? I swallow hard as I take it, feel colder as I touch it. My name is on the front...of course it is, it would never be him. Too perfect, I think, bitter and tender all at once.
I remember myself, slip back in the door in the hopes that no one's noticed. Before I even know what I'm doing, it's open.
You are Summoned for Evaluation.
Appear at precisely eleven this morning.
I know my face is as white as the envelope now. Somehow, the terseness is even more harrowing. I try to take heart that it's Evaluation; there's still hope. Evaluation isn't Reckoning.
I suppress a shudder and look at the clock on the living room wall: 9:30. Good that I've showered, then. I know the way there; it's required. I rush to the bedroom, choose a modest navy suit with a white blouse and sensible flats; it's expected. I wonder how Peter finds a boundless well of apathy to drink from; I'm trying, and failing.
Silently, now, I ask forgiveness again. I don't hear an answer, didn't expect one. What else can I do?
Nothing. There's nothing for it. I grab the keys, take my purse, and walk slowly out the door.
***
The carrier - with me as its only passenger - rumbles along smoothly, past homes and parks and warehouses, before slowing inexorably as it approaches a silver glass building. It's intentional - it must be. All that you are, everything about you, reflected a hundred times over no matter which way you move.
I alight on the platform, pass alone through the door that says Evaluations. The hall opens onto a seemingly endless white marble staircase. The next sign is at a landing some way up. No lifts, I realize. It dawns on me that this is part of the experience, that it's supposed to inspire reverence.
It's working.
At a second landing, I see a row of electric eyes. I lift the envelope from my purse, hold it in front of one. A tiny light turns green, and 30 feet away, a door slides open.
I walk over at an even pace and step through; the door whooshes shut behind me. There's little light now; I can see the outline of my shadow, impossibly high walls, and a lighted square. There's not a sign, and I don't need one. I walk to the square, stand as close to the center as I can manage...close my eyes, take a deep breath...and wait.
There's a long silence as the Evaluator prepares to begin. I can't see...him? her? even when my eyes open. I use what little bitterness I have left to force myself to be stoic, to show nothing on my face.
And then I hear the voice.
"Eden?" It cracks, rises on the second syllable.
"Peter," I whisper, and by what miracle I don't collapse to the floor, I'll never know. If ever I knew what a breaking heart felt like, it would be now.
Still, I can barely see him. He's no more than a dark outline against the draped walls; the echo of every sound is only in my head.
I feel a tremor in the room; he isn't proceeding as normal, even as desperately as he tries. No one ever spoke of this, but I knew. He clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably - and then plunges forward.
"Where were you last night?" he intones stoically.
So this is why; this is how. The apathy was a job. Training. Oddly, I feel no anger now. But no shame, either.
"I went to dinner with a friend," I answer evenly.
The head drops, and I hear writing, then fumbling. More writing, and he begins to pepper me with questions. I hear it, but I can scarcely believe: he's losing control.
I thought it was what I wanted, all this time. Instead, it scares me enough so that the answers come just as quickly, as precisely as I can manage. The questions stop flying past my ears for a moment, and I see rather than hear him take a deep breath.
"What happened after dinner?"
Did his voice just crack? My heart drops. Only now do I see what I've done. He was steadfast, loyal. Loving. All this time I'd been chasing after the sun, when all I should have done was cherish the light in his eyes. He was only this shadow until they released him from service. In time to come, he would have been mine again.
And now I doubted that he ever would be. It was exactly what I deserved.
"We...walked down the block," I answered, haltingly.
I hear what sounds like a wild animal growling low in its throat. It's coming from him. My head swims as every last bit of blood drains out of it.
"For three fucking hours?"
I recoil, terror twisting in my stomach. He doesn't believe me. His every skill has failed him, and it's my fault, it's all my fault.
And then, in a breath, he's jumped from the seat, he's striding up to me. He stands at the edge of the square, waiting. Sweat runs through my hair, down the back of my neck. I am paralyzed, powerless to deny, to even shake my head.
And then, he's screaming. Face red, spittle flying, advancing on me, all apathy gone.
I think I'm crying. I...don't know what else I think. All I know is that I want to get away.
“I was called, did you know that? She called me once, in the beginning, when you were making your way through the restaurant and turning every fucking head in thirty yards."
I edge backward, shaking my head, hands rising in surrender.
"And I said I trusted you, that you were just there with a friend, that it would be fine.”
I move my lips, but no sound will come out; slide backward again, and catch my heel on the edge of the square. He's wild, raging, advancing on me. Am I seeing him disappear? Or am I only seeing him for the first time?
“And then she called me again, when you left with him. And I waited for you, three fucking hours, waiting, wanting to hear the garage door open, praying that you had just gotten a little bit delayed on the way home.”
I try to skitter away, stumble. Crash into a wall as he rushes forward. I'm lost as he roars in my face.
“What did you do?!”
"I swear, it was nothing!" Sobbing, begging. "Nothing happened! Nothing! Please..."
Can't vomit, not here...why doesn't he believe me? He raises a hand over his head. No, please. I can't even form words. Tears, snot. My stomach hurts from the heaving. Please don't.
Am I shaking my head? I think I'm shaking my head. His face, bright red above me.
"please..."
Sobbing.
I wait for the impact.
It doesn't come.
Sniffling. A croak from my parched lips: "Nothing. It was nothing."
I wait, and it still doesn't come.
He changes again, his arm drops.
I see him remember something. I hear him remember: She doesn't lie. She never lies.
He's kneeling now. Softening, paling, shrinking. “Why, then? Why would you do something like that? Who was it?” I shake my head, still afraid to speak, afraid of the lurking monster.
"Eden," he says, and I hear him coming back to himself, but I'm still recoiling, I can't seem to stop. "Eden. Why?"
"I just...wanted you...back." Gasping, heaving leftover sobs, like a small child. "I couldn't...get...enough...of anything."
"I was never...gone, Eden. There wasn't a day that I didn't think of you, that I didn't cherish the thought of sleeping by your side... I gave you everything. Everything except for...this." Through swollen eyes, I see him sweep the arm forward, through the room. His eyes are on me, apologetic. Troubled, pleading.
"I needed...to...be good at this job. And that meant that I couldn't always be what you wanted me to be. But now I'm free, Eden. I'm yours."
I look at him carefully, searching for guile. For a sign that the curtain will draw again, that the door will slam shut and everything, everything will be over.
There is no sign. There's only my beloved, the only man I've ever known who was worth...everything. I feel my lips cracking as I speak, softly.
"It was Brendan."
I watch the knowledge dawn on his face. "Brendan," he repeats, so softly I almost don't hear him.
His eyes are on me, locked to mine, searching. Drawing on his skills, drawing on his love. I shake my head in tune with my answer. "Nobody else," I whisper. "Ever. It was Brendan."
"Brendan," he says again, numbly. And now I know, now I can trust. He's heard me, and he's coming back.
Because Brendan is my half-brother.
The fear leaves me - and this time, the fire in Peter's eyes is nothing but love, the look on his face nothing so much as hunger.
And then, before I can think or protest or imagine, he's pinned me against the wall, kissing me hard. My knees buckle, but it doesn't matter; he won't let me fall now. I kiss him back with everything I've been holding for all this time.
We move together then, undressing each other, making anything but a beast. He gazes deeply at me, love in his eyes, in his skin on mine. And when the crest breaks, we're together in it, tasting salt on each other's lips.
We drift together to the floor, where he cradles me, dropping kisses on my neck . He helps me dress, and I help him brush off wrinkles, tie his tie, buckle his belt. He sees me struggling to stand and lifts me up, pulling me against him - this time with adoration, with the blessed sweetness I thought I'd lost forever.
And then a door slides open.
I freeze in terror, my fingers gripping Peter's arm. It's a different door, behind the dais. Light spills from behind it, revealing the woman from the restaurant. Smiling, genuinely.
My eyes tell me that Peter is as surprised as I am.
The woman speaks, quietly, evenly. No judgment is evident in her tone.
"Peter, you are released from your duties.”
My mouth drops open as I look at him again. A wash of emotion, and then - his face shows nothing but contentment. I don't know precisely what he's thinking - all I know is that he's fully, truly mine once more. Free. I want to leap into his arms, show him how much I love him all over again.
Instead, I find that his hand in mine gives me the blessed restraint to...wait. He turns to me, smiling softly, and bends to kiss me - a kiss full of promise, brimming with what was and all that will be.
When he moves away, I can tell he's hesitating. The woman stands, impassive but not unkind, waiting.
But it only lasts a moment. He smiles, laces his fingers between mine - and together, we turn away and leave the chamber.
As we traverse the stairs, walk the halls, slip back into the carrier, I've lived another lifetime with him. We're both reeling with anticipation, with possibility - I can see it, I can feel it. We sit, and he pulls me close, looping an arm over my shoulders as I happily stretch my legs across his lap.
He buries his face in my hair, breathing deeply. Whispers his love in my ear as I stroke his cheek, and whisper mine back. It won't always be this perfect, I know. But perfection was never what I needed. Just...joy, togetherness, love so complete that it fills your every thought.
It's ours now. And as the scenery rushes by the windows, we both know that we're finally, truly going home.
A/N: My talented partner talonkarrde88 couldn't have made this easier to enjoy. We worked closely to interlink our entries, but still let them stand alone. We hope every word was worth reading!